Blasé
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair. Post-finale. Oneshot. Written in honor of the first anniversary of their wedding. Because Blair Waldorf no longer wanted a life she could feel even the slightest bit blasé towards.


**Author's Note: **Inspired by the quote "Life with you could never be boring" and written for the one year celebration of Chuck and Blair's anniversary.

* * *

Footsteps pounding against the hardwood are softened and silenced upon contact with one of the blue carpets delineating the living room from the hallway only to rise again with the excited shouting of her title rather than her name. One set of footsteps loud and heavy in the shift from heel to toe; the other loud and wobbly in the tumbled steps of a child still unsure and unsteady about the high heels borrowed from her mother's closet. One voice loud and clear with the final syllable trailing in a high pitched squeal; the other soft and garbled in the tumbled pronunciation of a child moving from the repeated sounds of babyhood into the multiple alliterations of a toddler.

Excitement bubbles over as two small bodies slam into her own and arms wrap and cling around her legs, as two small mouths part in a duet and clamor to be lifted into her arms. And her purse is peeled off her shoulder by the waiting maid as she drops to her knees, as she gathers the sources of excitement in her life into her arms and squeezes them close. Their voices muffled as they press their faces into her neck, as they curl their hands around locks of her hair and breathe in her signature scent. The timeless, classic elegance of Chanel number five mixing with the smell of strawberry kisses from a late lunch and conjuring up the reminder that she offers them a warm embrace, a soft and safe place to lay their heads and lay down their burdens.

Of which they, thankfully, have few. Chattering in tandem about morning trips to Central Park to feed the ducks, about afternoon play dates with Alexa and Griffin until she peppers their faces with kisses and sends them into a cascade of giggles. Wrapping them up in her arms only to set the eldest of the two onto the ground when he squirms in her embrace with words about how he is a big boy and doesn't need to be carried; shifting her youngest onto her hip and not even caring about the way her favorite pair of Louboutins – the ones that match the headliner from next season's line – fall off miniature feet down against the hardwood as her son wraps his hand around hers, as she allows him to drag her through the open door of the dining room on through to the kitchen.

The cowlick spiraling on the crown of the head dipped low over textbooks and notebooks follows a path she knows so well. Fingers followed the messy, twisting path from the moment of his birth until today when he sits on the cusp of puberty and no longer clamors to be held in her lap. Her first child now delves into Latin and German with the assistance of his tutor and spins English questions into French answers in the perfect Parisian accent she taught him for trips to his grandfather's vineyard and the boutiques clustered on the right bank of the fashion capital of the world. Her first little boy now throws annoyed looks at her second little boy as he climbs into the empty seat at the table next to him, as he sits on bended knees and peers over his brother's books because he is six going on seven and idolizes anyone eleven going on twelve.

The momentary distraction from the dictations of his tutor moves the cowlick from her view and rewards her instead with a smile of recognition, with the way he repeats her title and adds his own greeting in a twist of English and French. And she manages to press a kiss against his head before he ducks away smiling against that all too familiar cowlick as his tutor offers his own greeting, as the toddler in her arms curls her hand around her necklace and tugs. A move she anticipates by dipping her head to follow the movement, by twisting her gaze to look down at the little girl grasping the necklace and twisting the pendent in her pudgy hands.

"Pretty, mama."

"Thank you, Maddie."

She ghosts the little girl's name across her cheek; their foreheads touching as the little girl looks up at her through long, dark lashes and offers her an innocent smile meant to smooth over her demands, over her scheme for ownership.

"Mine."

"Mommy's."

A correction offered with a shake of her head and accepted by small lips that twist into an exaggerated 'o' as though the little girl is surprised to have her demands turned down. A correction replied to with a huff of disapproval because French and German and Latin is being interspersed with English, being interrupted by a younger sister asserting her demands for the material things and by a younger brother insisting on translating verbs and nouns when all he knows is the umbrella term for the parts of a sentence.

"Désolé, bébé."

Her apology is offered up with a hand that reaches out to tap against her youngest son's back, and the little boy sadly and slowly – feet dragging against the hardwood – following behind his mother and sister because he wants to stay in the kitchen and be just as big as his older brother.

"Je ne suis pas un bébé."

His reply is offered with a roll of his eyes and shouted as the door swings shut behind them because there are two younger and closer to babyhood than him. And his mother chuckles against her daughter's cheek because no matter how many years go by, he and she and the five-year-old in between them both will always be her babies. Perfect and beautiful and born out of love.

Even when they sulk, when they cross their arms and refuse to play with the myriad of toys scattered across the living room – teddy bears, wooden cars, dolls dressed in historical finery, and half-completed paintings arranged on the easel in the corner – and choose instead to pester the elderly dog sleeping under a stream of sunshine by one of the three windows. Gentle hands pat his head and gentle arms wrap around his neck in a tender hug because lavishing the old dog – fur nearly white with age – with attention is how he deals with disappointments in his life.

But his sister is unperturbed by the banishment from the kitchen sliding off her mother's lap and skirting around the maid who fluffs pillows with one hand and clutches abandoned Louboutins in the other to pick up her favorite doll. Brunette curls jumping with every bounce of her knees in excitement as she pushes the doll into her mother's lap, as she offers up her prized toy in exchange for the prized necklace arranged around her mother's neck.

"No deal, sweetheart," she replies as she pushes back her daughter's curls and adjusts the large, red bow in her hair meant to hold her curls in place. And the little girl drops her head into her mother's lap, pretends to be disappointed over the decline of her trade, and hides her face because she still hasn't perfected the doe-eyed look of innocence and the trembling chin of false sadness meant to conjure sympathy not spurning.

But her mother knows all her tricks ignoring their employment and running her fingers through the little girl's mass of curly hair as she answers the maid's questions about her day and asks her own about play dates and trips to Central Park. Her acute knowledge of her children's' schedules allowing her to ask just the right questions as she tangles her fingers in her daughter's hair and tries to cajole her into participation.

Terrible twos striking once more as the little girl twists her head in her mother's lap, as she rubs her cheek against the wool and silk of her mother's coat and dress and turns towards the dog – older than she can count – slumbering with one eye open in the corner of the room. One heavily lidded eye that rolls towards the window, two ears that lift at sounds only he can hear, and four legs that unfurl slowly – joints stiff with age – and shake off the gentle touch of the middle child as he moves to stand, as he slowly pads over to the gate situated at the top of the staircase.

Ears perked and tail wagging at the sound of the front door opening and shutting and of Italian leather on the stairs. His position as head greeter still his own with the low bark that escapes at the sight of the man rounding the corner and reaching the landing of the staircase and with the way a hand reaches out to pat his head long before kids running shouting titles and clamoring to be held. Each held in their father's arms, complimented, and hugged tightly; the youngest passed into the maid's waiting arms and the middle child directed towards the kitchen with the announcement that it is time to eat. One last pat on the top of the dog's head coupled with a compliment about how he is a good boy sending the dog off to his spot below the dining room table where children still learning table manners are sure to keep him well-fed and allowing the man to saunter across the room towards his wife without any interruptions.

"That's a rather extravagant necklace for a day at the atelier."

"Maybe for any other day, but I know someone who would be sorry if I didn't wear it."

A chaste kiss against her cheek becoming anything but when she twists her head and meets his lips with her own, when she twists her fingers through his hair and tugs because it has been four and a half hours since their lunch together this afternoon. Since she took a break from yelling at manufacturers and mixing honey with vinegar for her lead designer to travel across town and enjoy lunch with her husband, to unwrap a container of his favorite fruit and allow him to unwrap an offering of his favorite dessert. A taste of strawberry still on the edge of his lips and on the tip of his tongue; a sound of enjoyment echoing throughout the room.

"Oh my god."

The groan – more out of annoyance than shock – interrupts them, and her head dips to press against his shoulder and muffle her laugh because he is eleven going on twelve and far more prudish than his parents ever were at that age. Cheeks flushed and eyes refusing to meet those of his tutor because he idolizes Nikos and cannot believe his parents would embarrass him in such a manner.

"You forgot to leave a check with Dorota this morning to pay Nikos," he informs them. "And dinner is ready."

They untangle from each other's embrace, and he reaches into his pocket to extract his wallet, thrusts a wad of cash into Nikos' palm with eyes that warn the young tutor to keep his eyes on his books and off his wife. Because she is beautiful when her neck is flushed and her lips are swollen, but that is the end of the amount of beauty either one of them is willing to publicly share.

"See you next week, Henry," Nikos says with a wave farewell and a chuckle over the way his charge is caught between a desire to apologize for his parents' behavior and the knowledge that this will not be the last time this incident happens. At least, the eldest son tells himself, next week will be safe with his parents on an entirely different continent where they can continue their disgusting displays of affection and cannot embarrass him.

"You have parents that love each other, Henry. That's a good thing."

"Yes, but do you have to do it in public?"

"Your mother loves pub—"

The sharp jab of an elbow to his ribs causes him to wince, to lose his smirk in favor of a frown because he was only speaking the truth and hates how his wife favors filters and decorum when she herself stated that it is a good thing their children have parents who love each other. But their eldest son - a fair leader yet still possessing a tyrannical streak and a flare for the dramatics – reminds them that they are about to eat and there are rules about public displays of affection at meal times.

"That's at the table," his father reminds his toughest negotiator as he drapes his arm around Henry's shoulder and steers him towards the dining room. "The living room is fair game."

"I should have negotiated harder," Henry grumbles as he sinks into his seat at the table.

And yet his disappointment over his own negotiations skills are forgotten as Dorota places a plate full of his favorite foods in front of him, as his father and mother inquire about his day. An hour and a half carved out their busy schedules completely devoted to him and his siblings, to hearing about the minute details of their days because they care about it all and want their children to know that they are more than just figures who exist in their lives, who ignores phone calls from nannies and believe children should be neither seen nor heard.

"Mine, Daddy?"

His sister's interruption stops the conversation and distracts all their attention from the conversation at hand to the object of her affection currently on display around her mother's neck. A little girl who knows she has her father tightly wrapped around her finger failing to realize that going over her mother's head is impossible given the dynamics of her parents' relationship and told once more that necklace is never going to be anyone's but her mother's.

"Wait fifteen years, Madeline, an d maybe a boy who likes you will buy you one of your own," her mother replies with a smirk, with a twinkle in her eye that causes her father to frown, to reach out and press his baby girl's hand against his lips.

"Daddy will buy you one, Maddie," he promises. "Just no boys, okay?"

A promise he is never able to extract in return because the middle child, the one who tries so hard to emulate his older brother has gone from avid imitation to listless participation to choking sobs over the mess in his lap and the way his stomach tightens so painfully. The sound causing the maid who had been preparing to leave for the night to enter the room – coat pulled halfway up her arm – only to hurry back through the swinging door once more at the way his parents dart to their feet, at the way his mother snaps for Dorota to bring them a towel and a mop.

Tears cascading down his cheeks at the look of disgust on his older brother's face; tears caught in towel wrapped around his trembling body as his father lifts him from his chair. Tears cascading down his cheeks as he is stood before the toilet in the bathroom off the living room, as his father peels his messy clothes from his body; tears caught in the wet washcloth dapped against his cheeks and his lips by his mother.

"I'm sorry," he whimpers as he heaves once more, and his parents press their hands against his back, wipe his face, and promise him that he has nothing to be sorry for.

A well-rehearsed routine from years of cleaning up friends who are now family being employed as they wait for him to finish, as his father wraps him up in a clean towel and carries him upstairs for a bath. A routine that has changed with each addition to their family because she knows one usually means more returning to the dining room to press her hand against her children's foreheads, instruct Dorota to call the carpet cleaners and get Monkey out from under the table, and assuage Henry and Maddie's concern with promises that Nathan will be fine as she leads them into the living room.

But her children have something that she never had – sibling affection – and Henry insists on going upstairs to check on Nathan while Maddie curls in her lap and watches the stairs for her brothers to return. Neither her favorite doll nor her favorite storybook able to distract her from her vigil; her silence becoming a barely audible whimper over the sounds of the dining room being cleaned and her mother's off-key attempt at singing a lullaby.

"Yucky."

The single word spoken in a voice dripping with disdain as she holds up her hand, as her mother closes her eyes and calls for Dorota to come assist her. A prediction that one means them all coming true as the maid wraps the little girl in a towel, waits for her employer to careful peel off her now stained dress, and completes the tradeoff with eases years of caring for Miss Blair, for her own children, and for Miss Blair's children has taught her. A prediction that one means them all coming true as she reaches the top floor of the house and finds her husband helping their oldest out of his stained clothes and their middle child into his pajamas.

"Maddie?"

"You're the one who insisted on siblings."

"You're the one who can't keep her hands off me."

"Gross," Henry interjects as he clutches his stomach and heads towards the bathroom. "You're making my stomach hurt more."

"Mine, too," Nathan adds as he moves to copy his brother.

And their parents merely grin, merely restate their line about how lucky their children are to have parents who love them before going about the business of tending to their needs. And after three baths, three sets of pajamas, three bodies slumber under the covers forming three distinct lumps in their bed as one stomach bug ravages through their systems, their father glances at the clock beside their bed and groans at the realization that they are now three hours late for their dinner reservations and about thirty minutes away from missing their plane.

"I already had Dorota call," his wife informs him as she runs her fingers through Nathan's hair, as she cuddles Henry in her lap while the two boys sleep. "She's sure this is a twenty-four hour thing so we'll leave tomorrow evening."

"Not exactly how I imagined us spending our anniversary," he replies softly because he had it all planned – dinner at her favorite restaurant followed by an overnight flight on the Bass Jet so they'd arrive in Tuscany on the first day of another year of their marriage having renewed their membership in the Mile High Club. A week of just the two of them where he'd remind her of how much she means to him, where he'd thank her over and over again for ever agree to say yes to his proposal, to attach her name to his for the rest of their lives.

"Well, at least no one can call this year's celebration boring," she murmurs before dropping her gaze to her slip – damp with the heat of feverish bodies – to her husband's clothes – damp with splashed bathwater – and finally lifting her eyes to look at his face. "When's the last time you showered?"

"Only if you join me."

And this time she doesn't roll her eyes but carefully slides out from under her children without disturbing them or the dog snoring at the foot of the bed and eagerly takes her husband's hand, stifles her gasp of surprise as he lifts her into his arms with ease and carries her bridal style into the adjoining bathroom. Melting into him when his lips press against hers, when the fever always lurking beneath overtakes her, when the clock ticks ever closer to the day in which she said the most important rendition of the one word, three letters she ever could – yes – because she knew life with him could never be boring and Blair Waldorf no longer wanted a life she could feel even the slightest bit blasé towards.


End file.
